


The Land of Counterpane

by athena_crikey



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-26
Updated: 2016-09-26
Packaged: 2018-08-17 08:53:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8138003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey
Summary: Morse is ill. Thursday takes him home.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Been a while since I wrote some proper h/c!

“And then of course there will be the matter of explaining your interview with Miss Heydon to her parents, as…”

Sometimes, it seemed to Morse that Bright wanted nothing more than to hear the sound of his own voice. To perch behind his oak desk and hold pointless debriefs and consultations with himself and Thursday that stretched past 30 minutes in the sweltering heat of his office, facing south-east in the sweatbox that was Cowley Station in August. The sun poured down thick and relentless on its heavy stone walls, scorching in through wood-framed windows until the atmosphere was nearly unbearable. 

The sweat was running down Morse’s back, sticking his vest to the small of his back and creating an itch under his collar that stubbornly refused to disappear when he scratched it. He could feel beads of dampness prickling on his ribs, the whole of his skin roasting under his winter-weight suit. 

Bright was just beginning to come in a round-about way to his point when Morse felt a twinge of pain in his left flank. He winced, waiting for the cramp to abate. A moment later it had spread like a spark in dry grass, stretching out hungrily through his side in a diffuse, stabbing pain. He pressed his elbow to it, biting his tongue against the groan that rose up in his throat. The pressure made no difference, neither soothing nor exacerbating, and he took in his breath in a deep gulp. 

In an instant it had taken his full attention, drawn the focus of his thoughts from the meeting with Bright and Thursday and even the uncomfortable heat of the office. He knew only the searing, throbbing relentlessness of the pain. 

“…unless you have any further comments?”

Morse hardly heard the end of Bright’s tirade, barely noticed the silence that had replaced reedy speech. He had both arms wrapped around his side now, was struggling with the effort of not panting against the pain. He felt light-headed, his concentration slipping like sand between his fingers. Fear was beginning to kindle, a sharp icy pain in his heart that spread outwards with each beat.

“Anything to add, Morse?” Thursday gave him a look Morse couldn’t interpret. He shook his head, throat full of choked-down anguish. 

“No sir.” He bit the words out as though off the end of a roll of wax, shifting his weight as he sought relief and didn’t find it. The pain was driving him to distraction, tearing unrelentingly into him and dragging his mind down a dark well with nothing but agony at the bottom. He wanted desperately to writhe, to pant, to cry out. The effort of sitting still was driving him to distraction.

Bright said something in a dismissive tone and Thursday rose. Morse gathered his shaky legs under him and followed, keeping his joints stiff as plate armour to stop them trembling.

For a moment movement was a relief, but after the first step there was no change in the pain and he grit his teeth together as he made his way out into the hall where Thursday was waiting.

“Thought you wanted to talk about that letter – Morse?”

He looked up from his hunched position beside the wall, curling inwards away from the world. 

“There’s a pain – in my side.” He gripped his jacket, pulling it tight across his flank. His grip was so tight it was close to tearing the fabric; he couldn’t bring himself to care. 

“Which side?” asked Thursday promptly, stepping closer to take Morse’s shoulder in a steadying grip. 

“Left.”

Thursday pressed a hand to his forehead – its solid warmth a fleeting comfort against his clammy skin and for a moment his eyes slid closed to appreciate the instant of relief. He could hear the concern in Thursday’s voice as he spoke: “No fever. How much does it hurt?”

Morse looked up at him, swallowing dryly. He could feel the twisted expression the agony was painting across his face, feel the way the corners of his lips were raised to bare his teeth in pain. “Too much.”

“Come on.” Thursday slung an arm over his shoulders and helped him down the hall and through the clatter of the incident room, full of telephones ringing and typewriters rattling. Morse was in too much pain to notice whether their passage garnered any attention, or to care. Once into Thursday’s office, the inspector led him over to the sofa, where Morse’s shaky knees gave out.

“Sit yourself down,” he said needlessly; Morse was already halfway there. He felt light and fragile, like a piece of bone-china. He slouched down onto his good side, pulling his legs up after him and curling up. A moment later he was shifting against the pain, biting his teeth together to keep from calling out. He couldn’t settle, even for a minute, bones restless and pain indescribably acute. He was panting hard now, a catch in his throat. 

Thursday was on the telephone, talking to someone in a sharp voice. When he finished he stepped over and closed the blinds on the windows separating his office from the incident room, sending down a shower of dust that shone gold in the afternoon sun. 

“How’re you feeling?”

Morse shook his head, a low keening escaping his throat; he turned over again, breath coming in quick gasps. Thursday came over and pressed his shoulder, bending down. “You’ll be alright. Doctor’s on his way.”

Morse shivered, closing his eyes.

“Cold?”

“No – just hurts,” he muttered, miserably. “I think it’s getting worse,” he added, in a hoarse voice.

And it was. Not more intense, but broader, spreading from a patch in his side the size of a fist to blanket his flank. It rose up to his ribs and across his navel, pouring through him like molten lead. As it spread a wave of nausea rose in him, twisting his stomach with a cold sweaty hand. His shoulders jerked as it fought its way up; he looked up to see Thursday already fetching a bin. He returned just in time; Morse leant over the side of the sofa and retched, while Thursday held the bucket and rubbed his back in long slow circles. Morse clawed his fingers into the side of the sofa, the rough cover scratching unforgivingly beneath them, and tried to take some relief from Thursday’s presence. The inspector’s hand was heavy and warm, and it would have been soporific in the hot office if he hadn’t been too miserable to relax.

When the spasms finally stopped he curled up again, hurt and weary, and lay there shifting restlessly, listening to the sound of his ragged breathing. Thursday pulled a chair over and sat beside him, talking soft and reassuring words which Morse couldn’t take in.

  
***

Stern the police surgeon arrived some time later. Probably not much later, in fact, but in Morse’s state of restless agony it felt an age. He was a tall, gaunt man, hair prematurely white and hands long and narrow. He reminded Morse of a pianist; quiet, sensitive and focused.

“Pain in the side, is it?” asked Stern, taking Thursday’s place at his side. He was wearing a light-coloured suit and white shirt that gave him a washed-out appearance, and made him hard to focus on. “Left?”

Morse nodded, eyes pinched half-closed. 

“Alright. Roll over onto your back, if you would.” He ran seeking hands down Morse’s flank, under the left ribs down to the hip. “Here?”

Morse shuddered at the pressure, but didn’t flinch from it. “Yes. It’s spread – at first it was tight and small; now it’s most of my side.”

“Nothing on the right?” he palpated Morse’s other side; it felt no different than normal.

“No.”

“No fever, no guarding,” he pronounced, as if ticking items off a list. “Nausea?”

“Yes – I was sick,” said Morse, rather thickly. The memory induced a twinge in his stomach and he winced.

“Pretty clear case,” declared the doctor, straightening and picking up his bag from where it was sitting on the corner of Thursday’s desk. “Uretic colic; kidney stone.”

Morse stilled, staring. “Meaning…”

“A tiny stone in your urinary tract, making its way through. It will pass eventually.”

Morse gripped the edge of the sofa. “How soon is that?”

“A day or two. Likely the pain will fluctuate, but I’ll give you some morphine now, and a prescription for some painkillers. The most important thing is to drink plenty of water – that will help it move through faster.”

“Should he be in hospital?” asked Thursday, askance, looking down at Morse as the constable twisted himself up into the corner of the sofa and held himself there, breathing heavily. 

“No need; most likely it will pass without incident. He’ll be perfectly fine at home.” Stern leant over the desk, scribbling on a pad of paper; he ripped off the product and handed it to Morse, who accepted it with a shaky hand and stuffed it into his pocket. “Get that filled and take them as needed – not more than one every four hours. If you’re no better in four days, call me.” He fished a bottle from his bag, put it down on the desk, and then produced a black case from which he withdrew a syringe. Morse watched, head rolled back against the stiff back of the sofa, as Stern drew down the morphine into the syringe’s glass body before glancing back to Morse. “Down with the trousers,” he said, flicking the syringe. 

On another occasion, Morse might have blushed to drop his trousers before his superior; now, the pain was far too severe for him to be bothered with anything other than halting it. He did as he was told and turned, hardly wincing at the prick of the injection. Stern withdrew the needle and he shucked up his trousers again, dropping down to lie half-draped over the sofa’s arm. 

“I’ll write him a note; he’s to be on sick leave until he’s passed the stone. You’d better have someone take him home – he’s not to drive himself while he’s on pain killers. You hear that Morse? No driving, and no alcohol.” 

Morse nodded, only half-listening. He had no interest in either. He just wanted the pain to stop. 

“Come along lad,” said Thursday, kindly, slipping a hand under his arm and helping him up. Morse came to his feet, suddenly feeling heavy-limbed; he leant against Thursday while he waited for the feeling to stop. It didn’t, but the pain seemed to be dulling; he closed his eyes and rested his chin on Thursday’s shoulder. The inspector smelt of aftershave and pipe tobacco – a familiar, soothing smell. “I’ll take you home.”

  
***

The ride home passed largely forgotten, just vague memories of sunshine on black metal, and hot leather seats. His mind was starting to drift, thoughts floating away from the weak grasp of his attention. The sharp pain had already faded to a duller ache, and was now becoming just a sense of pressure, present but unobtrusive.

They were halfway up the stairs to his apartment before a thought occurred to Morse, being helped up with his arm slung over Thursday’s shoulders. “How’d we get in?” his jaw felt too loose, words rolling ungracefully over his tongue. 

“Used the spare set of keys,” replied Thursday, giving him an appraising look. “How’s the side.”

“Better. Much… better,” said Morse, eyes drifting over the pattern on the stairwell carpet. He’d never noticed it before, the interwoven flower stems ending in bright chalices of blossom. Surprisingly pretty. 

“Good. Mind your step.”

He seemed to be stumbling a lot; it was irritating but he couldn’t seem to help it. His legs felt heavy, his ankles like they had been injected with tar. Thursday hiked his weight higher over his shoulders and Morse took in a surprised breath.

“Nearly there lad.” Thursday produced the keys again and Morse noticed that somehow they had managed to reach his door. He waited while Thursday worked the lock, then they were stumbling inside into the darkened interior. 

It was cooler here than the station or the car. Morse stepped gratefully into the fresh darkness and Thursday led him to his bed, setting him down on the mattress. Morse rolled into it, head spinning dizzily as he lowered himself. He was vaguely aware of Thursday pulling off his shoes but only in a superficial sense, like the awareness of breathing. 

“You stay there, Morse. I’m just going out to fetch this prescription of yours.” Thursday fished it out of his pocket, Morse lying limply on the bed watching him with unfocused eyes. 

One minute Thursday was there, fiddling with the blankets, the next he was gone. Morse stared up dully at the ceiling for a while, then fell asleep.

  
***

Morse was asleep when Thursday returned with the little bottle of pills from the pharmacist, breathing a little harder than usual from climbing the four flights of stairs in the sweaty stairwell. He used his set of keys to let himself into the flat, given him by Morse some time ago after Gull the Opera Lunatic had nearly gutted him. Morse’d needed a few days’ rest then, and someone to brave the stairs to bring him meals. Not for the first time, Thursday had regretted the lack of a spare room. It would have been so much simpler to bung the constable into it and leave him to Win’s care – then as now.

She would have undoubtedly fawned over the unsuspecting constable had she found him as Thursday did, curled up asleep in his bed on top of the covers, dressed in his full suit of clothes and faintly flushed from the heat of sleep. Morse was perhaps lucky that his tempestuous personality had been partnered by a face that spoke of kindness and innocence, especially in his sleep when the bright intensity of his intellect wasn’t there to take the sheen off. 

Thursday deposited the bottle on the table and searched around for a piece of paper and pen. All he found were old newspapers and cloth-bound books of poetry, occasionally with slips of paper in them acting as bookmarks covered in Morse’s blocky print – his own attempts at poetry. They were too learned for Thursday’s taste, but they struck him as delicate, complex things – like the pattern of frost on the windows in January. Easy to appreciate but hard to copy or convey. 

In the end he pulled a piece of paper from his own notebook; the pen he found more easily, and wrote his note:

_Morse,_

_You’re to remain off-duty until the stone’s passed. That’s an order. You’re not to drink alcohol or drive while on this medication – that’s the doctor’s order as well as mine. I’ll stop by this evening to see you have what you need._

_Thursday_

He left the note, weighted down by the bottle, on the dining table. Stepping over to where Morse was sleeping, he spent a minute looking down at him. Morse had twisted himself to lie half on his side and half on his back, one arm dangling half out of the narrow single bed. He slept stilly, a deep drugged sleep without twitching or fluttering eyelids. Thursday had tried to straighten the covers beneath him before he fell asleep, but Morse had succeeded in twisting them into a knot to lie mostly at his side, revealing the lined white sheets beneath. 

Looking down at Morse’s sleeping form he found himself filled with the soft compassion he had felt for Joan and Sam when they were ill, a kind of banked fire that warmed him from within. He had sat by their beds then, reading them “The Land of Counterpane” by lamp-light while outside the dark night drew closer. 

Morse, he imagined with a faint smile, probably read _Ulysses._

Gently, he reached out and brushed a few stray locks of hair from Morse’s clammy forehead; Morse lay still, breathing deeply and evenly. 

“I’ll look in on you later,” he said, knowing Morse wouldn’t hear it, and let himself out. 

END


End file.
